Vital
by ElanorRose
Summary: Joanne is away while she's gone, Maureen mulls them over and realizes exactly what Joanne is to her. Harmless MoJo fluff.


Joanne has been gone for what seems like a year. She's at a legal conference in Buffalo, but to Maureen it might as well be China. There hasn't been any way to contact her for three days, and Maureen's going insane. She lost her job at the restaurant a week ago, and that was the last conversation she'd had with Joanne, screaming over the phone about contributions to the household. They'd made up five minutes after hanging up on one another, but Maureen still aches from the words exchanged. She's sure Joanne hurts, too. They both said things crueler than necessary.

Maureen wants for Joanne's body, her warmth and comfort, and sweet words. She sits around the house watching TV and trying not to get sick. They haven't been able to pay for heat at all yet this year, and it's a bit disconcerting when Maureen wakes up and can see her breath. On the morning of Joanne's ninth day away, Maureen looks at the clock as her eyes open. 6:00 AM. What? She tries to rest, but sleep won't come.

No sense sitting around a frigid apartment being unproductive. Maureen gathers her clothes for the day and lets herself into Collins's place for a warm shower. He pretends not to know about their copied key, but Maureen knows he doesn't care. With only one person in the apartment, he doesn't use up much hot water, anyway.

Maureen walks the few blocks to their neighborhood's health food store with her hair tucked under a scarf to keep it from freezing. This winter's been so cold; Maureen can't remember another like it. The weather's even given up, refusing to snow, leaving only grey January skies accompanied by the ever-present biting wind.

Maureen steps through the door of the market with a jingle of long-forgotten Christmas bells. She grabs a few items, enough for lunch, dinner, and breakfast tomorrow. Tea, four boxes. Milk. Hot cereal. Three cans of chicken soup. Bread. Maureen catches a glance of herself in the security mirror above the counter, and realizes how miserable she looks.

The shopkeeper notices it, too. "What's up?" he asks as he rings up the food. "You look like your dog just died." Maureen crosses her fingers behind her back, hoping against hope that her credit card's accepted.

"What? Oh, it's nothing, my gi—my friend's out of town." She doesn't know why her tongue always slips over that word. She thinks she's still in denial that things between the two of them would work so excellently. Well, as good as anything between the most stubborn people on the planet can go, anyway. Besides, she's not used to referring to her as her girlfriend. There are far better words to describe her, and Maureen has always thought of her as… simply Joanne, the woman with whom she just happens to have a lot of sex.

"Sorry? Didn't catch that. You say girlfriend?"

Maureen laughs sheepishly. "Yeah, I did. Well, I almost did. I always forget."

He smiles at her knowingly. "Tell it, sister. Who is it, Joanne? You two have been in and out of here for a long time; guess I just never realized you were together."

"Well, obviously, you don't pay enough attention to your surveillance cameras." She sighs at his blank look. "Nevermind. Yeah, she's her."

"How long have I been oblivious to your relationship?

"We've actually been dating for… almost three years?" The cashier stares as if to say, _And she's still not a girlfriend to you?_ "I'm sorry, I guess I'm just not used to calling her that."

"What do you usually call her, then?"

Maureen giggles, her tongue slipping out from between her lips. "Pookie!" The cashier blinks, and she leaves with the bag, shaking her head. Some people will just never understand.

She sits down on a park bench, and pulls out the loaf of bread to munch on as she reads a book for her Lit class at NYU. The streets look so deserted this early on a Sunday morning, but it will only be another hour before people emerge, smelling up the city with their blended perfumes, ethnic food, and the ever-present exhaust from the sea of yellow taxis. Maureen breathes in deeply through her nose, catching the cold air in the back of her throat and letting it slowly fill her lungs. The winter can be revitalizing, under all its slush and wet.

When she arrives at home, Maureen swathes herself in every blanket they currently own, and curls up with the cat in front of the TV. They don't have a sofa, just beanbags, so she props her feet on the pathetic excuse for a coffee table and watches daily soaps for hours. Her mind is almost numb, and she could care less about what happens to Louise's lover's brother's pregnant ex-girlfriend, but she finds herself unable to pull away from the ridiculous gossipy shows. What's happened to her?

She calls Mark later, twisted into a ball on her bed, for reassurance that she isn't turning into a crazy cat lady who smells like burnt hair. Thanks god for cell phones; he's out filming on location and doesn't mind if she rings him. He assures her she isn't going to start perpetually wearing a bathrobe, but she knows he can detect the sadness in her voice.

"I miss Joanne."

"Oh, great. Listen, can you call Collins about this? I'd really rather not hear about your sexcapades, Momo."

Maureen starts to laugh. "What?" he groans.

"It's just you, Marky. You so grudgingly agree to talk to me; act like you're only doing it 'cause it's a responsibility or something. And then once I talk over your complaining so long you just give up, you listen like a brother."

"I do not," he replies indignantly, reminding her of Roger.

They talk for ages, Maureen just happy to have human contact for the first time in days. She clutches Joanne's beloved knitted cap in her hand, playing with the thick wool as she laughs. Joanne never goes anywhere without this hat, with thick black and grey and red stripes. Collins calls it her dyke hat. Maureen was surprised to see it on the side table when she woke up the first morning without a body next to hers. Joanne had already gone for the airport, leaving only the hat and a note, scribbled in her meticulous handwriting. _I know how cold you get. Wear it, honeybear! _And a big, loopy heart.

Maureen rolls the thick wool between her thumb and forefinger, inhaling in huge breaths the distant powdery smell of the cream Joanne wears in her hair, still lingering between the knitting stitches. When she and Mark say goodbye, she somehow crams the hat over her explosive black curls, tucks her ears in tightly, and sleeps the instant her eyes close.

Hours later, she feels hot breath on her cheek.

"Move over, doll, it's nippy." Maureen's eyes snap open, and she rolls over, confused and groggy.

"Pookie? What!"

"I'm home, baby. I didn't have any more presentations to do and I was gonna stay to watch the rest, but I just had to come home, so as soon as they gave me the go, I jumped on the first plane back here. I could feel you hurting, honeybear."

Maureen curls into her stomach, resting her cheek lightly on Joanne's chest. "Mmm, you smell nice. Just like I remembered," she murmurs, burying her nose in the crook of Joanne's neck. Joanne jumps, and Maureen blows on the spot where her icy nose had poked Joanne. "Sorry. I'm turning into an icicle."

"You are, baby, you are." Joanne rubs her arms furiously, getting tangled in blankets. "But I know just what to do to melt you." Maureen can literally hear her smirk.

Maureen smiles into her collarbone. "I _so_ love you right now."

Joanne laughs, a deep-throated chuckle that surprises Maureen with its richness. She hasn't heard Joanne laugh like that in a long time. "I love you too. Happy anniversary, honeybear."

Maureen glances up at the clock. "Oh, would you look at that. It is."


End file.
